


Father and Son

by LivaWilborg



Series: Father and Son [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor being Connor, Family is complicated, Gen, Haytham being Haytham, No Smut, Racism, Robert Faulkner - Freeform, Shay Cormac mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-06-29 20:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19837792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: Haytham and Connor join forces to locate Benjamin Church.During the search, father and son had quite a few months to bicker and argue, which we were never treated to in-game.So this is the story of what happened during their mission down-time and "behind the scenes" of the game.Fair warning: NO SLASH OR SMUT*HUGE thank you toAniphinefor the beta-reading. =DHUGE thank you to Oktoberkatze for the amazing help in plotting things out. =D I’m super grateful for your help and all the discussions! Awesome assassin-consulting!HUGE thank you toSaethatoo for our Connor-discussion! You should teach Connor-behavioural sciences. =D





	1. Bloody Savage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham finds that having a conversation with your son, when he distrusts everything you are, say and do, can be quite a challenge.
> 
> This story is set shortly after the ingame mission "Missing Supplies" taking place in December 1777. After teaming up, Haytham and Connor travelled back to New York together before parting ways temporarily.

_December 24th, 1777_

The city came into view in the distance, the outlaying farms and homesteads covered in winter splendour in the pale rays of the afternoon sunset.

There were still quite a few travellers on the road into the city and Haytham couldn’t help noticing the sidelong glances as they rode along. Some people stared at his son with… something almost akin to disgust. Granted, The Boy was ridiculously – unnecessarily – stalwart, touting his native-style garb like a badge of honour, …and to him, it probably was, he mused. _But that shouldn’t be cause for hatred_ , he found himself thinking. The Boy wasn’t being threatening in any way …not just now, at any rate. He was just riding along, minding his own business like everybody else.

Haytham furrowed his brow, glaring daggers at a passing farmer who had been staring angrily at Connor. The man quickly turned his eyes to the road and went on his way when he caught Haytham’s harsh stare.

People’s fears... That was the real enemy. How easily everyone banded together against those who were ever so slightly different. In a properly disciplined society, each little unit in the machinery wouldn’t have cause to distrust the other if things went along as planned, Haytham mused to himself and sighed. The stoic silence The Boy ceremoniously upheld was getting annoying, grating on his nerves like a saw through a femur.

“I don’t suppose you celebrate Christmas?” Haytham finally ventured, not really expecting an answer.

“We do not have to talk, _Father_! Why don’t you mind your injuries instead,” The Boy said through clenched teeth, not even looking in his direction.

Haytham gave a small involuntary laugh and the healing wound on his lower lip annoyingly reopened a tad, letting a tiny droplet of blood trickle down his chin. Calmly, he found a handkerchief in his pocket and patted the red off. “Well, I don’t know how your upbringing has treated you, so I’m merely curious. You’ve been in Achilles’ grubby little claws for a while. No telling how he acts when not being shot in the knee…”

Connor instantly halted his horse.

Haytham did the same and just raised an eyebrow innocently.

“That was you!” Connor said, not posing it as a question. “You did that to him.”

“I really should have killed him.” Haytham shrugged. “I was persuaded to let him live though. If I’d gone with my instinct, perhaps you and I would have been able to hold a conversation with less unseemly tension.”

“Tension is the only thing staying my hand. Be grateful.” The Boy kicked the horse into a trot and Haytham did the same, following as The Boy weaved around a group of other travellers on the road.

“So, do you?” Haytham persisted.

“What!”

“Celebrate Christmas.”

“No!” Connor spat.

“Really… Hm. What a pity.”

“I care nothing for your pitiful, suffering god.”

“Not quite the point. We’re hardly all puritans anymore,” Haytham commented.

“ _Was_ there a point?”

“Not per se. I was just curious as to your experiences. Nothing vicious, I assure you.”

They rode on in silence for a while, the outskirts of the city slowly engulfing them.

“Who changed your mind?” Connor suddenly demanded.

“Hm?”

“Who changed your mind!”

“About w– Ah. The knee-capping-compromise. No need to go into details.”

“Why would I answer your questions when you never answer mine?” The Boy asked, _slightly_ less hostile than normally.

“…Very well,” Haytham sighed. Perhaps The Boy wasn’t _entirely_ at fault. It would make sense for him to have questions too. “Shay Cormac. A close friend. He convinced me t–“

“Cormac? The traitor?” Connor asked, a predictable flare of fury hiding in his tone.

“Yes, I suppose, to your side’s detriment, he would be,” Haytham said. “He has a strong sense of justice, however, which has guided me often. He convinced me to let your… I’m sorry, I don’t know how to term the man – Teacher? Mentor? Broken father-figure? – live. Master Cormac’s always been good at somewhat poorly received ethical reminders. Though in this case, I _do_ regret bending to his will.”

“You never bended to anyone’s will,” was all the response he got.

“Terribly kind of you to say, but not entirely true.”

The Boy just shot him a glance positively bristling with enmity and continued onward.

Haytham sighed. It seemed there was no winning in present company, and he was at a loss as to what to do.

The streets slowly got more and more narrow and their pace was slowed. In the end, it was easier to dismount and join the foot traffic. At the outskirts of a small market, a trader advertising his apples from his stall stared at The Boy. Connor, apparently oblivious to the attention he engendered, walked past the stall, horse’s reins in hand, Haytham following.

“Bloody savage…” the trader mumbled as Haytham passed.

The Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite stopped in his tracks, a mess of conflicting emotions suddenly gripping him. A few paces along, Connor halted on instinct, looking back over his shoulder.

“A thousand pardons,” Haytham smiled politely at the man in the fruit-stall and removed his hat in unconscious preparation. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Connor and back to Haytham. “I said bloody savage, Sir,” the trader commented loudly, stabbing a finger in Connor’s direction. “Gentleman of quality like you should do something ‘bout that. They’re a threat, I tell you, all of ‘em. Prancing around like ‘e owns the place.” The man shot a dirty look at Connor who just stood there, staring coldly at them.

Haytham’s hand shot out, grabbed the trader’s collar and pulled the man brutishly forward so his forehead could impact with the man’s nose. There was a tiny scuffle as the trader with the now-broken nose was pulled so close his head rested on Haytham’s shoulder. “That man is my son, and he’s only a threat to people who don’t behave,” Haytham whispered in the trader’s ear. “Take it from a gentleman of quality: my son has infinitely more right to be here than you or I. …Happy Christmas.” He pushed the man backwards, making him stumble onto a pile of baskets at the back of the stall. He threw two apples from the counter into his hat and flicked a coin from his pocket in the man’s face. Fuming, he gestured to The Boy to walk on, put the apples in his coat pocket and pulled his horse along in Connor’s wake.

“How do you stand it!” Haytham finally exploded when they were out of the market square and the street was broad enough for them to walk shoulder to shoulder.

“Savage is _your_ word. Not mine,” Connor just commented. “And I don’t need your help.”

“I know. I’m…” Haytham found himself strangely at a loss for words, remembering the dirty looks in Connor’s direction on the road into the city. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. It’s certainly not that I think you need my protection.” The thought itself forced a scoffing laugh from his lips. “Please, do forget it happened. Apple?” he asked and held out a piece of fruit to The Boy.

Connor looked at the apple for a while, as though pondering how likely Haytham was to have poisoned it in the few moments since acquiring it. Just when Haytham was about to give up, The Boy scoffed and took the damned piece of fruit. “We part ways here,” Connor simply stated. “When you have news on Church, you will let me know.”

Haytham stood still, watching Connor leave. The Boy never looked back.

A small smile played on the Grandmaster’s lips when he saw The Boy, farther down the road, take a bite of the apple, however.

It could all have gone …worse, Haytham supposed. Now, he had to go back home to his town-mansion and get ready for the governor’s Christmas ball. Good thing he’d managed to get back, despite the delay, in time for one of the most profitable events on the social calendar for the Templar Order. …Such a wealth of good deals to be signed and shaken on when important wealthy aristocrats were appropriately drunk.

Casually, Haytham took off his cape and flipped it inside out before putting it on again. Now the blood from the fruit-vendor’s nose was hardly noticeable through the thick, silky wool.

Haytham saw The Boy round a corner and disappear out of sight, and he shook his head, mostly at himself, feeling curiously dishevelled at the whole ordeal. The Boy was profoundly in need of guidance but Haytham wasn’t certain the guidance he could provide would ever be accepted.


	2. Out of Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the (comparative) fuckup in the brewery with the fake Benjamin Church and the ambush, Connor and Haytham go their separate way, both arriving at their nest with a very stark image of the night’s happenings and a lot of questions it’s hard to seek answers to.

_27 January, 1778_

**Haytham**

His hat was long gone. Not exactly a surprise given the end to the evening’s substandard escapade.

As soon as he had found his horse and begun the ride home, he’d taken off his cloak to have less ice-cold, wet fabric weighing him down. Haytham could have sworn the horse sent him a dirty look – which reminded him of Connor – when he threw the wet, scrunched up fabric over the saddlecloth in front of him before kicking the beast into a gallop.

For some strange reason he’d taken the cloak with him from the stables into the house. He didn’t know why he’d done that. …It didn’t do him any good, since it was now going to dry up in a haphazard shape and stink of boiling beer and the shit in the harbour.

Haytham stared at the fabric in his icy, trembling hands for a while and then purposefully dropped the bundle on the floor and gave the offending wearable a vicious kick. The rolled-up cloak tumbled across the hall and settled in a half-unfurled pile at the foot of the large clock with a tiny squish. The clock, as if prompted, struck four in the morning.

Absolutely ridiculous.

The house was silent around him. A lantern, left by the servants before retiring, was his only light source.

He wasn’t even a curious person, that was hardly his driving force. Why in the world would he have held back the killing blow originally? Initiated a bloody conversation? With the annoying child who didn’t hear a word he said anyway.

Damn his curiosity. Damn The Boy and his massive delusions of entitlement.

How did ‘I’m all out of forgiveness’ constitute a sensible reply to ‘I gave no such order’? Didn’t he _listen_!

Did The Boy seriously believe that he had sent people out to slaughter …Ziio? Did he _really_ believe that?

Ziio was dead. It made a lot of subtle, but dark, differences somehow.

Everything hurt. No! His _ribs_ hurt!

His ribs hurt where The Boy had pummelled the Hell out of him with enough force to break down a blasted wooden shutter-wall. All without knowing what was on the other side. He was reckless. A child, with no understanding of dangers or how the world worked, Haytham fumed silently …and then realised he’d just been standing there in the quiet hall, allowing his thoughts to run away with him.

With an angry sigh, he shrugged his still wet and icy coat off, toed off his boots and threw his weapon belt on a chair. The servants would have to deal with this mess when they got up in two hours’ time, that was what he paid them for.

The icy January winds had all but decorated his coat with rime frost, and the cold had long since sunk its teeth into his very marrow.

…At least The Boy would be equally miserable, he consoled himself, but then amended that. The Boy would not have a bruise blossoming on either side of him, one from the wall, one from getting stampeded by a simpleton with all the grace of a moose in heat!

Still fuming to himself, Haytham grabbed the lantern and went upstairs to his bedroom. He should burn his clothes.

They couldn’t be saved anyway.

~O~

**Ratonhnhaké:ton**

Tentatively he’d admitted to himself, at the back of his mind, that the cold bothered him as he jogged through the quiet streets.

Putting distance between himself and Kenway had been a deep-seated need.

The cold that turned his breath into clouds and threatened to freeze his wet, sloshing clothes had prompted him to seek shelter in the small tenement flat rather than returning to the _Aquila_ , anchored up far out in the harbour.

When it came to property, his coin was enough to shut most white men up and let him buy from them, but some refused having anything to do with him once they saw his face. The flat was a cold and silent little space, which was one of several that Faulkner had helped him buy, hiding a quick uncharacteristic flash of either sorrow or pity when he’d been asked to assist.

 _Connor_ was not enough of a shield, despite Achilles’ good intentions in extending the name to him, Ratonhnhaké:ton thought as he built a fire in the small wood-burning stove with fingers that shook with the cold. Conversely, he risked one day simply _becoming_ Connor, even to his own people, as he moved further and further from them in spite of what he did to keep them safe.

The thought itself was painful and he pushed it away, suddenly grateful for the icy cold that made him tremble and shook his thoughts.

…It could be worse than being Connor. He could have been _Kenway_. Colder than the ice biting his bones now. So ‘practical’ that it had long since crossed the border into enjoying his own thoughtless cruelty.

As soon as the flame in the wood-burning stove burned steadily, he shakily removed the ice-cold clothes he had taken a life for earlier that night. He remembered the sensation of putting them on.

The shirt in particular – the distasteful frills not too far removed from what his father favoured – had made his skin crawl when he put it on.

He stripped naked. Getting rid of this mercenary disguise came not a moment too soon. He threw the stolen clothes in a corner and, trembling all over with the cold, reached for a blanket on the narrow bed and wrapped himself up in front of the fire. It would take a while for heat to return to his limbs and he resigned himself to the steady tremor in his body.

It would lessen, in time.

Kenway… did he enjoy killing? No, Ratonhnhaké:ton thought. He didn’t get enjoyment out of it. It was simply something he did to people who were minor annoyances or in the way of his will.

Like water in a river, Kenway always took the path of least resistance. To himself. To his Order. No matter how harsh it was. The ends justified the means without question.

When asked what the Templars really sought, the answer was ‘order, purpose, direction’. Perhaps it had been too curious of him to even ask this. But he had to know. Hear it from the man himself. And his father had lectured him, as if explaining something simple to a slow child.

Whose order? What purpose? Which direction? None of these questions were answered. Kenway had said the Patriots dressed things up in pretty words. Perhaps he was right. But he seemed guilty of that himself. Wasn’t he? He had shown nothing. Except the will to clean up the mess in his own ranks by dealing death to everyone and everything he encountered with no thought to any consequences except to himself and the Templars.

Kenway had given in, hadn’t he? Ratonhnhaké:ton tentatively thought. Kenway had given in to the temptation of control. It wasn’t about freedom or chaos to him. It was about the belief that he could fetter the wills of others, simply by having the sharpest knife and a conviction he didn’t question.

Had Kenway spoken the truth when he proclaimed his innocence? he speculated as the fire slowly began to fight the cold in his body. He turned the question over in his mind slowly, letting it settle. Kenway had seemed to almost let his shield of arrogance slip when he denied having given the order. As though it had struck something in him. But having his callous deeds exposed might also be the reason he reacted like that. He surely thought he was unchallenged. Still, he’d seemed uncharacteristically… shocked. A small glimpse of something… Uncertainty? It was hard to tell what uncertainty or guilt or sadness would look like in his face.

Ratonhnhaké:ton flexed his fingers tangled into the blanket, feeling life slowly return.

One thing was certain, though: Being _Connor_ was what it was. Good and bad. But being _Kenway_ would have been worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Incidentally, I’ve been listening to the song [ His Father’s Son](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbkBEWh5PIs) by Miracle of Sound while writing this. If you don’t know Miracle of Sound, I highly recommend checking the Assassin’s Creed songs out. They’re amazing! =D


	3. Something Noteworthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham has some serious bitching to do! For once, however, Connor isn't the target.  
> ...Connor still finds out, though.
> 
> ULTRA thanks to Oktoberkatze for politely telling me the first version of the story was ...something I could do better. =D

_February 10th, 1778, aboard the_ Aquila _on the Atlantic Ocean_

**Haytham**

The cabin was tiny. There was just room for the supplies he’d had sent aboard prior to departure ten days ago, and then for edging his way to the tiny desk. He could just exactly _not_ lie stretched out on the narrow bunk built into the wall.

Still, there was a closable door with a bolt and he could sleep with his feet lopsidedly hanging over the edge or just curl up. He’d endured much worse. And while it was quite awful, he was surprised he didn’t have to fight his way to private accommodation when arriving. It would have been an easy way for The Boy to assert his temporary “dominance”.

…Well, knowing his father willingly banished himself to a cabin the size of a broom-closet every night probably counted as just that to Connor’s mind, Haytham thought and shook his head. He briefly read through what he’d written, before he dipped the quill again and rested the nib on the paper, gathering his thoughts.

 _Also, Mister Faulkner is predictably an absolute bore_ , he wrote. _His tiresome verbal stabs at me are beginning to annoy me, but I will have to wait until he lands the first blow to put him in his place._

 _I believe he fancies himself a teacher of The Boy, perhaps even a sort of drunken and grizzled father figure._ _I beat him easily at cards this afternoon because he evidently has a talent for neither card-counting nor probability calculations. He fumed and scowled, and lost no time hissing at me under his breath, so the crew wouldn’t overhear, how bad of an influence on The Boy I am. I’m honestly not certain what he refers to since I cannot see any particular change in Connor’s three marginally different facial expressions. If I were capable of exerting any kind of influence on him, by now I’m quite sure he’d be capable of holding a conversation with fewer absurd phrases, at the very least. Sour grapes indeed._

_There’s the most prevalent facial expression, which seems primarily directed at me – stoically contained fury, further characterised by speech happening in short, constipated bursts. On rare occasions when he tries a different approach, I’m treated to questions, asked in much the same manner but with no intention of listening to my answer._

_Then there’s a sort of blank evaluation, with a steady, slightly hostile stare to go with it. I believe this is my son’s version of guarding his thoughts in interactions, and to his credit, it works. Provided there are any thoughts behind the gaze to guard._

_No, there must be. I just cannot unlock the path to them. In all honesty, he angers me. Everything about this angers me. It shouldn’t have been like this. Curse you, Ziio! What the HELL were you afraid I would do? Why didn’t you tell me? Or did you just forget I ever existed the moment I left? You asked me not to come back when next I left for Boston and I couldn’t but comply with your wishes. Did you even tell him about me?_

_I will never forgive you for this. Never! Your decision has stolen my future from me and looking at my son is nothing but a bitter exercise. I was satisfied knowing my time in the Order’s service would perhaps be remembered by future generations of soldiers, but then it turns out you gave me the most vicious gift imaginable, breaking everything apart. I cannot even begin to fathom why you would make that choice._

He drew a long breath to steady himself from the furious pain the quill painted onto the paper. For a while he stared blankly at the small lantern, gently swinging from its hook in the ceiling. Above, the sound of footsteps, likely Mister Faulkner on night duty, sounded. The _Aquila_ creaked her soft lullaby around him. When his breath calmed down in his throat, he dipped the quill again and wrote,

_I can see her, too, in The Boy, when he thinks himself unobserved. A core of calm authority. Thinking about what could have been is a useless exercise and my anger has nowhere to go except to my son who doesn’t deserve it. He believes he’s doing good. That every thoughtless, ill-informed murder of good men, working to do good deeds, brings him closer to a better world._

_Perhaps all my anger should really be directed at Benjamin bloody Church. I don’t know what else I can do._

Haytham put the pen down and sighed.

…The _Aquila_ wasn’t a bad ship, he mused to himself, desperate for a change of mental scenery as he dipped the quill in the inkwell before it came to rest on the paper again. …And The Boy was not without authority as a captain. He rarely spoke, but somehow the crew did as he silently instructed, speedily and unquestioningly. It was strange watching him in that role. Seeing the tiresome anger, which he so intensely embodied whenever his gaze fell on Haytham, washed away by something calmer, a kind of silent, serene vigilance.

He looked over the text that had flowed from the pen once more. His thoughts had evidently not been present in the process.

 _It struck me today how Connor resembles not me, per se, but my father. In personality, they are nothing much alike, except perhaps in mindless, stubborn persistence. But for a few mad seconds, I saw him there, my father, at the helm, alive again in The Boy’s gaze and decisiveness, his mad_ Jackdaw _days revived – and me an outsider, as I’ve always been, just looking in from behind the stage but with no real part to play in his story._

A small, uncomfortable shudder ran through Haytham’s body when he read what his hand had written without conscious permission. He set the pen aside with finality. That was quite enough introspection for one night.

It didn’t matter in the end, these little messages sent to his waking mind from the depths of his thoughts. It really just emphasised that you should never put anything in writing, it was far too vulnerable. Normally, he would write his thoughts and burn the papers immediately afterwards, but here, on the night-clad Atlantic Ocean, that wasn’t an option if privacy was to be maintained and his tiny night-lantern left unclogged by risky ashes.

Carefully, Haytham tore the sheets of paper into small shreds, opened the tiny window at the stern and let the night breeze catch them to scatter them on the dark ocean.

o-0-o

**Ratonhnhaké:ton**

“That man is trouble, mark my words!” Faulkner stated in a low tone of voice so the sparse night crew wouldn’t hear. His gaze was filled with intent as though he could somehow force the words onto Ratonhnhaké:ton’s mind.

…He could hardly object. Having his father aboard _was_ trouble, and he was well aware of that fact. Kenway’s presence was like inviting a smouldering powder keg onto the ship. Back in New York, when Ratonhnhaké:ton had let Faulkner know who he had invited aboard, the man had looked for a moment as if madness had gripped him. Like he had suddenly found himself in the claws of a horrific vision.

The men were wary of Kenway as well. Ratonhnhaké:ton had heard whispered stories told below deck, stories that always stopped immediately when they saw him. Kenway’s viciousness was evidently not a secret and the men were apprehensive.

He just nodded at Faulkner. “I know he’s trouble.”

“Well, then…” The old sailor secured the wheel with a rope and nodded at his captain as though he expected him to storm off immediately and throw Kenway overboard. “Get rid of him. Or maroon the man somewhere isolated, and with any luck, he won’t come back. I guarantee he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to you. He’s their Grand Master. Removing him is doing the _world_ a favour!” He realised he’d raised his voice a little and quickly looked to the deck to see if anyone had overheard. The night was still and silent and nobody was within earshot.

“I gave him my word we would cooperate. The supplies are more important,” Ratonhnhaké:ton said levelly.

There wasn’t exactly any trust between himself and Kenway. Perhaps his father had ulterior motives. But what could he possibly get out of a long voyage to an uncertain destination if his interest in capturing Church wasn’t sincere? The Templars had the funds to launch their own ship. So Kenway was running a risk as well, Ratonhnhaké:ton thought. Perhaps having it known that he was cooperating with an Assassin would be as damaging to him as the opposite was turning out to be.

He slowly unhooked the rope and held the wheel, Faulkner taking a step back to make room for him.

“Connor… Don’t let him turn your thoughts around,” the old sailor added softly, cutting himself off, “Captain,” he finished the sentence, looking a little guilty at the familiarity.

“I gave him my word.” Ratonhnhaké:ton just repeated, “It’s done. And I will see this through.”

There was a change in Faulkner’s expression. It was hard to read its meaning in the gently swaying lantern light.

“I know you will. I know. Just be careful. He’s not an honourable man. You cannot trust him.”

“I don’t.”

A breeze suddenly carried a small, strange, white flake over his shoulder and instinctively, Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hand shot out and grabbed it, his mind expecting it to be a snowflake or a down from a night bird. They were too far south, out of range of the snow. And he’d seen and heard no birds.

Paper. A small piece of torn paper.

He looked at it, puzzled. There was writing on it, even and precise. He quickly read it, ready to let it fly again, but thought better of it.

“What does jackdaw mean?” he asked.

Faulkner looked at him blankly. “It’s a bird. Nasty little fuckers. Why?” He held out a hand for the small shred of paper, but Ratonhnhaké:ton just reread it, ignoring the gesture.

“Is ‘mad jackdaw days’ an expression?”

“No? If it is, I’ve never heard it,” Faulkner answered. “Where did that come fr– It’s his, isn’t it! He’s writing messages now?” He gestured aft, almost quivering with the effort of containing his sudden spike of anger. “Who do you think wrote that! He’s clearly planning something. How much more proof do you need?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared at the note, brow furrowed.

“If that bastard Kenway is writing in codes about jackdaws–“ The sentence began in a forceful hiss but was abruptly cut short. “It’s… my watch, Captain,” he commented, suddenly more subdued. “I’ll keep the old girl afloat tonight, you needn’t worry.”

“Kenway and jackdaw. Tell me,” Ratonhnhaké:ton just demanded, puzzled by the change. It seemed everything was working differently now, with his father aboard, than they had earlier and having to guess at the reasoning behind everyone else’s strange behaviour was an impossible task.

Faulkner sighed, scratching his beard with a sinewy hand. “You’ve heard the stories from the crew…” he finally said. “The only other Kenway I know of was Captain Edward Kenway. His ship was the _Jackdaw_ , and he was as mad a bastard as ever sailed the seas. Doesn’t have to mean anything, mind you.” He finally looked up and caught Ratonhnhaké:ton’s gaze. “You don’t know what’s going through his twisted mind,” he nodded to the deck under their feet and Kenway’s cabin below it. “Be careful you don’t lose your way.”

It sounded as close to gentle as the old sailor was capable of. Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at the old man for a while and then stepped aside, letting him take his place at the helm. “He’s protecting Lee. That won’t stop. He’s not here because I trust him. He’s here because we both need Church brought to justice.”

“You want justice. Kenway just wants revenge. He just wants to kill,” Faulkner stated. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton paused, turning the statement over in his mind. Perhaps it was true. Likely, it was. But it still meant his father would honour their agreement. His reasons for doing so were less important. He looked down at the small piece of paper in his hand and nodded goodnight to Faulkner before going below to his cabin.

He spent a while staring at the torn paper. He couldn’t be certain why this had been written. What sort of strange ritual of his father’s this was? It wasn’t a message to anyone, _that_ he felt certain of. If a Templar vessel was somehow in pursuit, letting torn paper shreds fly on the dark ocean was hardly a Kenway-solution.

And the mention of this Jackdaw… The note said ‘my father’. He wasn’t certain how long ago it was that Captain Kenway had been active, but… Well, he would have to ask if he wanted to know, but any conversation with his father always carried the certainty of his condescending lectures and being spoken to like a slow child.

He let the paper flutter on to the logbook, shook his head and went to bed.

The Aquila would need to take on fresh water soon. A few more days and they would be near islands where resupplying was possible. Perhaps there, he could ask, where Kenway’s anger and lectures wouldn’t be overheard by the crew.

Cooperation. Temporary allies. Interests aligned. None of this felt unthreatening when it happened with Haytham Kenway.


	4. Looking Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long, boring voyages at sea make emotionally distraught people, who refuse to acknowledge they are emotionally distraught, do all sorts of provoking things.  
> This is a story of Haytham being even more of an asshole than usually. =D
> 
> Gigantic thank you to Oktoberkatze for all the amazing help and analysis along the way! Thank you so much! You absolutely rock! ^^

_February 22nd, 1778, aboard the_ Aquila _in the Caribbean_

**Ratonhnhaké:ton**

It wasn’t the first time, as he stood at the helm, that he wondered what he had expected of the man. Had he really assumed Kenway would hide away in his cabin so as not to provoke the situation? Keep to himself in some semblance of understanding of not making an already problematic state of affairs worse?

The first day of real warmth, Kenway had put a chair on the deck of the bridge and taken a seat. He seemed almost …content at times. Regardless of what Ratonhnhaké:ton had expected, Kenway’s casual enjoyment of the sun, jacket slung over his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, as he read a book or scribbled notes with a graphite pen, had _not_ been it.

The next day, Kenway had ordered one of the men to fetch a table as well. And rather gallingly, the sailor had immediately complied, as if promptly following the orders of the Grand Master of the Templars was the most natural thing in the world to do aboard a Brotherhood vessel. 

The next day it had gotten even worse, and Faulkner had looked like he was ready to bellow like a bull and run him through when Kenway had produced a bottle of brandy and calmly sat there, enjoying a drink as he read or studied what looked like yellowed maps of the region, as though he didn’t trust the navigator.

Quietly cursing the warm breeze and clear, sunny sky that had ruled for ten days and showed no signs of abating, Ratonhnhaké:ton wished for rain to force his father below deck. Having the man sitting there, right at the edge of his peripheral vision behind him when he stood at the helm, was like a constant itch that couldn’t be scratched, only stubbornly ignored. And he had no doubt his father was uniquely aware of that fact.

As a further annoyance, when they’d taken on fresh water over a week ago, the man had, frustratingly, assisted the crew in carrying the barrels, and talking in private had not been an option. The question of the jackdaw still bothered the back of his thoughts, and Ratonhnhaké:ton almost believed Kenway had somehow sensed it and took pleasure in denying him answers. …As well as bothering Faulkner at every chance he got, like a small child seeking attention.

Furthermore, every night, a while after retiring to his cabin, a few fresh handfuls of paper shreds were scattered on the dark ocean, and though he knew how foolish it was, Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself searching for excuses to take the evening watch in case another breeze should happen to carry a useless scrap of writing into his hand. At least keeping Faulkner away from that risk kept him safe from another explosion of opinion.

Being _Connor_ was unquestionably preferable to being _Kenway_ , he’d often confirmed to himself during the voyage when observing the Kenway version of cooperation.

“Good afternoon, Mister Faulkner,” Kenway said in a pleasant tone of voice, looking up from his book when the old sailor came up from down below to take his shift at the helm. “Perhaps you’d be interested in losing a game of cards after duties? I’m sure I can spare a glass of brandy or twelve.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton saw the grizzled sailor’s face go red with instant fury that made his beard bristle, eyes narrow, fists clench.

“Merely for sport, naturally,” Kenway added cheerfully. “I’m sure the Captain wouldn’t want us setting a poor example by gambling and I doubt you have anything to bet that would interest me.”

The look on Mister Falkner’s face as he turned to stare at Ratonhnhaké:ton could best be described as a furious plea for permission to strangle the passenger.

“Take your station, Mister Faulkner,” Ratonhnhaké:ton said and went to lean on the railing next to Kenway, arms crossed.

Almost quivering with rage, the old sailor silently took his station, not looking back at them, knuckles white on the wheel.

“Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you agree?” Kenway commented conversationally, closing an old notebook he was reading and turning in his chair to look up at Ratonhnhaké:ton.

“How much longer must this go on?” The question was asked quietly through clenched teeth.

“Until we deal with Church and go back to New York, of course. I’m sorry, I thought you were aware of the plan.”

“How. Much. Longer?”

“My best guess would be about a month and a half.”

“You know what I mean!”

“A kind assumption on your part. But do enlighten me, please.”

“You’ve made your point! Everyone aboard is aware of your presence.” He had to turn his back to the helm and stare at the _Aquila’s_ wake so his anger could be kept private.

Kenway got to his feet and stood next to him, staring at the horizon. “I believe it’s traditional for a crew to be aware of passengers. How long have you captained this ship? Merely curious…”

Ratonhnhaké:ton drew a deep breath. “Long enough to know how a passenger should behave.”

The short laugh that escaped Kenway’s lips seemed involuntary and he quickly hid his smile. “Sadly, I’ve had to aim to live down to your expectations. To change the subject, though,” he commented, “would you mind terribly if I took a few hours to assist the crew? Exercise is hard to come by as a passenger.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned his head to stare at his father. Trying to undermine his authority as a captain wasn’t something the man did by accident, that fact was not in doubt. Though why he did it, what he hoped to gain… Did he think he could take over the crew or was it just for amusement? What did he think would be gained by having Faulkner finally lose his temper? He briefly imagined asking Kenway directly, but most likely the answer would just be more inane chatter that answered nothing.

“You have no respect for anyone. Why would you want to be near the crew?” he finally managed, bracing for a circular argument designed to infuriate.

“On the contrary, I have respect for crewman Ames, among others,” Kenway just remarked. “Why would you think otherwise?”

Puzzled, Ratonhnhaké:ton just stared at him, not certain what he was aiming at. What angle the attack would come from.

“…No reply?” Kenway asked.

“Crewman Ames. Why?”

“Because according to intelligence, Ames was responsible for the murder of James Tilly last spring. Somewhat irksome but quite professional.”

“Tilly,” Connor commented. “The judge that let Templars get away with everything.”

“The very same,” Kenway confirmed, smiling.

“He was a monster,” Ratonhnhaké:ton just commented.

“He was a tool. Just as Ames was to you.”

“Ames is a person, not a tool. People aren’t just tools, which you can use as you please.”

“Certainly, they aren’t. I fully agree,” Kenway stated, and Ratonhnhaké:ton furrowed his brows. The only time Kenway agreed with him was when stopping Church was concerned. “People are tools you can use _as they let you_ ,” Kenway clarified. “The vast majority of people really just want to be told what to do with their time and happily sign their lives over to others.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, dumbfounded at the callousness of his father’s viewpoint. “So you want revenge on Ames? _This_ is your cooperation?” Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded in as low a tone of voice as he could muster.

“Goodness, no. Nothing of the sort. I’m rarely impressed, but Tilly’s murder was quite a remarkable feat, circumstances considering. I thought I’d let Ames know and gift the man a chance to swear at me.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “You can exercise all you want as long as it’s useful. But you do not speak to the crew!”

“Very well, I will be off, then, practising hand gestures.” Kenway smiled politely and made to leave.

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hand shot out and clamped around his father’s arm. “You do not _communicate_ with the crew. If you have something to say, you say it to me!”

“Ah, well in that case…” Kenway leaned casually on the railing once more, shaking the hand that held him off. “I _do_ have something to say.”

A tired growl formed in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s throat before he could stop it and he put his hands on the railing, knuckles as white as Faulkner’s had been. So, there it was, the start of the disdainful and patronising lecture.

“I believe your grandfather would have been rather proud of you, if he’d had the chance to meet you,” Kenway stated. Then he just nodded, as if to himself, and made to leave again, throwing his hat on his chair on the way.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood in stunned silence for a few heartbeats. “What!” was all he could finally force himself to say.

Kenway halted on the stairs to the deck. “Fear not, Captain. I shall be wordless in my exercise.” Kenway gave him a polite nod and turned to survey the crew briefly before he set off to join them.

o-0-o

**Haytham**

_February 22 nd, 1778_

_Why do I bother dating these notes?_

_Perhaps just to help keep track of the days here; the mind-numbing tedium. Perhaps in some ridiculous correlation of my father’s scribbles, drunk or strange or coded as they may have been._

_He keeps appearing in my thoughts._

_Maybe it’s natural. I’m in the same area where he was active for a lot of his career. I can’t imagine some of the islands here – seen from a distance as emeralds on the horizon – didn’t hold some meaning to him. I know he had friends here. That he suffered losses here that turned him into the man I briefly knew._

_If what I overheard that night as a boy, when his former first mate came to visit, was true, then his primary nest while in the area is just a day away from our current position. A nest of assassins. Perhaps it still is? Though since I have virtually no information on it, I suppose it must have fallen into disrepair since then; they’re rarely, if ever,_ that _good at hiding._

_As a boy, it was exciting to go searching through old maps to find the fabled island of Great Inagua, which my father had asked his guest about. I used to hope it could somehow be brought up in conversation with him so I could have a chance to sound smarter than I was. I never succeeded in that. I wonder what he would have said if I had. Would he eventually have confided in me? Did he have any hopes or dreams of working alongside me one day? How important was I to him?_

_What kind of a relationship would we have developed if he had lived? Would it be as detached and strange as the one I have with my own son? Would I still have placed my loyalty the way I did, eventually? Or would he somehow have retained his aura of godhood as I grew older; as I still believed my mother loved me, my sister was safe, and all was well with the world?_

_No. Birch. He would inevitably have ruined things. Jenny would have been lost, one way or the other, because of my father’s certainty that he was capable of seeing the darkness in the souls of others. It’s pointless to speculate, but I find myself questioning everything anyway._

_It really needs to stop, this constant looking back. It needs to stop!_

_Today, The Boy_ finally _reacted to me, validating my ridiculous, childish last-option-strategy of simply bothering Faulkner until my son had to intervene. I’m slightly mortified this is what it’s boiled down to, but at least it worked. When I tried making myself useful last week when we took on fresh water, he seemed perturbed and annoyed at my assistance, though today he declared I could exercise all I wanted, as long as it was useful. So, it seems I’m fighting to both annoy my way to having him communicate and try to make myself useful to get him to string words together into coherent sentences._

_~~Why do I even bo~~ _

_I bother, because The Boy is an asset, which_ I _was robbed of! And if I can reclaim it, even to the slightest degree, I will! Neither Ziio, nor Davenport, nor bloody destiny itself will steal from me unchallenged!_

_…well._

_That aside…_

_Connor finally took initiative and tried to protect his position when he perceived me as enough of either a threat or an annoyance. I'm not certain which, and I find that I care little. He even talked back to me in clear terms, perhaps in a manner that could almost be described as having a modicum of humour to it? Maybe my enthusiasm at this revolution is getting the better of me? It's sad that I have to consider today's minor exchange a progress in our interaction, but that's nonetheless what it is._

_If I can just keep him in such high spirits – or rather, state of displeased agitation – that he's willing to let me know his thoughts, perhaps I can use that to start a conversation that could last longer than the paltry exchange of this afternoon? I kept it short, fearful of overwhelming him. I did, after all, get more communication out of him in five minutes than in the rest of the journey put together. I hope this was the right decision. That this wasn’t my one chance and I wasted it._

_He distrusts me when I speak calmly to him, he distrusts me when I make myself useful. He expects every word I say to be both a lie and an attack._

_Good work, Davenport, you miserable old fart. You did a marvellous job proselytising my son beyond questions, thoroughly behind my back._

_Shay broke free..._

_But then again, I assume Connor was much younger when he fell into Davenport's filthy little hands._

_If Connor stepping in to protect Faulkner is what it takes, then I shall redouble my efforts to make the blasted old codger try to punch me._

_It feels good to finally see_ some _results._


End file.
